


Fairshaw Week 2020

by Laeviss



Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft, World of Warcraft - Various Authors
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Awkwardness, Blow Jobs, Drinking, Light Angst, Light Bondage, Love Confessions, M/M, Misunderstandings, Restraints, Scars, Shaw loving coffee and being a grouch, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, Superstition
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-03
Updated: 2020-05-12
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:48:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23989894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laeviss/pseuds/Laeviss
Summary: A collection of my prompt fills for Fairshaw Week 2020:Day One: RopesDay Two: Day OffDay Three: DrinkDay Four: SuperstitionDay Five: StealthDay Six: ScarDay Seven: StormEach chapter will be rated separately!
Relationships: Flynn Fairwind/Mathias Shaw
Comments: 60
Kudos: 119
Collections: Fairshaw Week 2020





	1. Ropes (E)

The sun had nearly disappeared behind the teal roofline of Tradewinds Market when the Seventh Legion returned from their raid on Freehold. From the deck of Wind’s Redemption, Shaw watched the party as they descended the stairs and rounded the corner towards the gangplank. At the front were two mean-looking goblins, one of which had a scar that nearly cut her face in two. 

Behind them followed a white vulpera the marines had all but wrapped in chains, and then a cluster of roughed-up Kul Tirans, glancing to the left and the right and looking a bit sheepish as they filed past the Harbormaster’s Office. An auburn head near the back of the group drew the spymaster’s gaze.

His brows rose, but he set his lips in a line, determined to quell any sign of shock from his face. With a grunt, he approached the head of the plank and nodded as the first set of marines filed past. 

“This is all of them?” Shaw studied the goblins for a moment, before looking back up at the humans flanking their sides. “Did you find out who they’re working for?”

“Gallywix, sir,” one soldier jumped to explain, “The Trade Prince himself has set up shop just south of Vigil Hill. It seems he’s heard of the wavering loyalties down in Freehold. Thought he could buy some treason from this spineless lot.”

“Did he?” Unable to stop himself, Shaw shot a pointed look back towards Flynn Fairwind. The ex-pirate, it seemed, had taken note of his presence. He stood stiffer than usual, his grey eyes wide and his lips parted in some half-formed explanation.

Shaw focused his attention back on the goblins, for now. He would get to Flynn Fairwind in a moment. “Set the Horde aside until Wyrmbane returns from Vol’dun,” he gestured towards the High Commander’s quarters. The marines nodded, one of them tightening her grip on the rope binding the two together.

He lifted his gaze towards the humans once more, though this time pointedly avoiding locking eyes with Flynn, “As for this lot, take them below deck. I will have my agents question them. We will find out how deep this rabbit hole goes.”

“Yes sir!” The marines quipped together, and then, with little further ado, dragged the goblins aboard and towards the door to the captain’s quarters. Taking a step back, Shaw watched as the men guarding the vulpera followed suit, and then nodded at the remaining marines as they prepared to escort the Kul Tiran pirates below deck. It wasn’t until Flynn was within grabbing distance that he made any move to stop them.

Without so much as a look in the ex-pirate’s direction, Shaw reached out and closed his palm around the top of his arm. “Hey!” Flynn exclaimed. Shaw cut him off with a shake, speaking up so that everyone on deck could hear him:

“I’ll be speaking to this one personally. If you need me, I will be down with him in the hull.”

“Yes, sir!” The marines replied. Satisfied that no one had any additional questions, he dug his fingers into the nape of Flynn’s neck, waited for the remaining prisoners to brush past, and then gave him a push towards the stairs behind them. Again, the ex-pirate let out an indignant noise that the spymaster pointedly ignored. They rounded the first flight of stairs, crossed the cannon deck, then descended once more into the deepest bowels of the boat.

Finally, they reached the door to the storage room at the stern. Shaw used his free hand to open it, then pushed Flynn over the threshold. It was only after he had the ex-pirate sitting on an empty barrel that he opened his mouth to speak:

“So,” Shaw bristled. 

Flynn, it seemed, was ready to talk, as he wasted no time jumping in: “Hey, mate, this isn’t at all what it looks like. As I was trying to tell the guards—”

“What were you trying to tell them?” Crossing his arms over his chest, Shaw leaned back against the door. He tried his best to summon the same cool demeanor with which he usually interrogated his prisoners, but he couldn’t stop his teeth from gritting beneath his mustache. His ire started to rise. 

The ex-pirate must have noticed, because he made a show of rubbing his bound wrists against the top of his thigh and grimacing as he clenched his fingers together. “I was just down at the bar for a meeting, nothing more. I had a debt to settle with a captain down there, trying to get him off my back, and all. Just wanted to smooth things over.” 

“And?”

“And? He asked me to sit down and share a pint, mate. It was just meant to be a pint! I didn’t know he was hosting the bloody Horde in his basement. How could I? You know as well as I do, I’m done with that life. I haven’t been down to Freehold since—”

“Since you were arrested the last time. Or was it when you tripped down that road chasing after a siren? I can't recall.”

“Hey, you know that was just—”

“Flynn,” Shaw cut him off with a wave of his hand. He had given up trying to act detached. This was no ordinary prisoner, and these were no ordinary circumstances in which they had found themselves. Rubbing between his brows, he started to pace. His leather boots padded softly across the floor. 

“Taelia, Crestfall, we have all vouched for you here,” the Spymaster went on to mutter. Flynn must have rocked in his seat, because somewhere off to his left Shaw heard the squeal of wood against wood. He didn’t stop to acknowledge it, turning only when he reached the wall and strided back in Flynn’s direction. “The Alliance has been satisfied with your expeditions in the South Seas, but the privileges his Majesty has granted can be revoked in an instant. I hope you are aware what you stand to lose.”

The spymaster paused at that, waiting, and arching his brows. On one level, of course, he meant to suggest the captain’s rights to the ships in the harbor, but on another…well, there was more to this than just keeping Flynn Fairwind employed, and he hoped the ex-pirate knew that. Discreet trysts with an ally were a risk Shaw was willing to take, but with a traitor? No. He wasn’t prepared to go down that road again. 

Thankfully, despite Flynn’s huffing and squirming moments before, he seemed clear on what Shaw was trying to say. His expression softened a bit, and he stilled with his bound hands now resting between his legs. When he spoke again, it was lower, and gentler—almost soft by the ex-pirate’s usual standards:

“I wasn’t there committing treason, Shaw, I swear on my mother’s grave,” his grey eyes seemed to glimmer in the shadows. “I wanted to settle a score, get this louse off my back, leave that old life behind. It was wrong place, wrong time. I would never—”

“I know,” Shaw admitted, easily. Frustrating as the ex-pirate could be, he didn’t doubt his loyalties, “But you must know how bad this looks.”

“I know, but—”

“Don’t do it again.”

“—all right, but—”

“Foolishness can be just as dangerous as duplicity. Don’t let yourself forget that.”

With that, Shaw found himself standing in front of Flynn. Resting one hand against his cheek, he slid the other around to undo the band holding back his hair. As it tumbled down onto his shoulders, Flynn leaned forward and let out a sigh against Shaw's lower abdomen. Even through the leather corset, the captain’s breath was hot. 

Finding a bruise on Flynn's cheek with the pad of his thumb, Shaw smoothed over it, and regarded him with a long look. “Did you at least make sure your drinking buddy was caught?”

Flynn let out a sheepish laugh Shaw felt quiver down to his core. “He jumped out the window, actually,” he admitted.

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope.” Looking up, Flynn cracked a smile. His chin rested lightly against the front of the spymaster’s belt, “He’s a slimy bugger. The absolute worst. But if you need help catching him, I know just where to look. Send me down there, and I’ll redeem myself. Just you wait.”

Shaw rolled his eyes. His hand fell from Flynn’s cheek to the tip of his goateed chin, and he used it to tilt his head upwards. He responded with the kind of resolve he usually reserved for his most troublesome agents: “You will not be going anywhere near those pirates any time soon. You are going to do your job, here, with me. Is that clear?”

Shaw had intended to sound intimidating; for some reason, that, after hearing it said aloud, didn’t take much guesswork to ascertain, the ex-pirate’s lips parted in a wide grin. “With you, you say?” Flynn murmured, jostling slightly with his arms still bound in front of him, “Well, that, I think, I can manage. As long as it’s here with you.”

Flynn Fairwind was no great seducer. Logically, Mathias Shaw knew as much. His attempts at being suave came off little more than goofy, and he could scarcely manage to stay serious enough to make his flirtation stick. That being said, there was something about his earnestness: maybe it was the way his grey eyes flashed, or the unabashed display of his own arousal. 

It got to Shaw—far more than he was accustomed to, and even more still than he cared to admit. Tensing, and standing up a bit taller, he gave Flynn’s hair a yank before releasing his grip on his chin and stepping in to press the front of his trousers against his nose.

The ex-pirate chuckled, and it shook Shaw down to his knees. Focusing his gaze on the wall behind them, the spymaster muttered between clenched teeth, “Shall I undo your hands?”

“Just the pants. I can manage without the hands.”

Shaw didn’t doubt him. Saying nothing further, he reached down, unlatched his belt, and made deft work of the lacings holding closed the leather garment. Once his pants were open, his cock, already half-hard, twitched free. The heat of Flynn’s breath only inches away made him swell with unbridled interest. 

No matter how hard he studied the opposite wall with all its knots and stains, Shaw couldn’t stop himself from reacting like a younger man with far less restraint. A flush crept up the back of his neck, and his thighs quivered slightly as Flynn leaned in, nuzzled him with his nose, then made a few clumsy attempts to tilt his head at the proper angle. 

Finally, he felt the ex-pirate’s lips close around his head, and then he was gone. A low groan escaped him, and he stuffed his knuckles between his teeth to muffle it. As always, he wasn’t sure if it were the thought of being overheard that restrained him, or if he just couldn’t bear seeing Flynn get too smug.

If he got any smugger, Shaw wasn’t sure he could hold himself together much longer.

Even with his hands bound and his legs splayed around a barrel, the ex-pirate grinned with his cock in his mouth. Unlike Shaw, he made no secret of his moans, letting them reverberate against the spymaster’s skin. There was a twinkle in his blue-grey eyes when he easily swallowed him into his throat, and a certain pride when he slid back to lap at his now-wet slit.

Shaw wanted to grumble at the display, but it came out sounding more like a choke. He flexed his fingers, and then used them to grasp at the ex-pirate’s auburn hair. At least the tug made him feel like he had some semblance of control over the situation, even if his hips—desperate to buck wantonly into the captain’s heat—wanted to undermine him. 

Tangling his fingers up in Flynn Fairwind’s tresses, he stared back at the opposite wall. Where he had once seen details, now it all ran together, lost in the ecstasy that spurred him towards his release. Where there had been thoughts and reservations, there was soon just tension waiting to unfurl, and Flynn’s tongue and throat working around him, drawing his climax out of him.

His body tensed, and he came hard. No hand in his mouth could muffle the cry that escaped him. Giving in, he rolled his hips forward and let Flynn suck him clean. He didn’t look down again until he felt the ex-pirate's mustache tickling his now-too-sensitive head.

Finally, Shaw offered him the glance he knew he wanted: a faint nod, and a smile that twitched at the corners of his lips. 

“Debt paid, then?” Flynn jested. Shaw looked down, and his smile shifted, again, to a grimace.

“What was that?” He muttered. 

“Debt paid, I said. Get me out of these bonds, will you? I’ve had enough fun playing prisoner today, thank you very much.”

Irritated though he was, Shaw obliged. Shaking his head, he reached down between Flynn’s legs and made quick work of a knot he knew the ex-pirate could have undone on his own. It was only after he was free that he squeezed him through the front of his pants, tracing his thumb along their tent, taking his time, lest Flynn forget who would be giving the orders tonight.


	2. Day Off (G)

Flynn tipped his head at the well-dressed merchants they passed on their left, a grin plastered across his face. There was a slight swing in his gait as he rounded the corner—a click of his boots against stone, and a chuckle as he took in the high-walled maze with unrestrained appreciation.

He hadn’t been in this part of the city since…when was it again? Taelia’s last birthday? It wasn’t that he couldn’t come up here, of course. It just felt a bit posh; the air blew a bit fresher than he was used to up here, and when he came on his own, he couldn’t help but wonder if he smelled like a fish out of water. 

With the right company, and an excuse to be here, however, he rather liked it. The hedges cast cool shade across his face, and the fountain tingling at the heart of the maze sang a pleasant song so unlike the crack of the sea at the harbor. 

He smiled, plunged his hands in his pockets, and waited for his ‘company’—a certain Spymaster Shaw—to join him at the fork in the path. “All right, then,” he quipped, with a slight wave of his hand, “Let’s see those keen senses put to work.”

“Left,” Shaw answered without a moment’s hesitation. He didn’t even pay the passage on the right a glance, setting his eyes on what amounted to a sharp turn leading to the outer edge of the maze. 

Flynn might not come here often, but he came here enough to know it wasn’t the way. He’d have fun teasing the rogue about it later, but for now he played along. He took a step back and allowed Shaw to pass with the edge of his coffee cup pressed to his lips. Determined as he seemed to be, he scarcely paused to gulp down a swig. 

The ex-pirate, now out of view, let his smile widen. He followed behind, keeping his gaze fixed on the nape of the spymaster’s neck extending down from his cropped red hair. Even though it was supposed to be his day off, he hadn’t removed his blue-and-gold uniform. 

‘A strange one, that guy,’ he remembered Cyrus saying after their first meeting in the shadow of Wind’s Redemption, ‘His mind always looks like it’s going in fifteen directions at once. I wouldn’t be surprised if he sleeps with his eyes half open.’

The Harbormaster may have been wrong about that last bit, as Flynn has confirmed in the weeks thereafter, but he was right about one thing: Shaw’s mind dove towards any sign of disturbance like an albatross that caught sight of a fish from the air. Even when he didn’t know the way, he kept his eyes on the goal. 

Flynn respected that commitment, different as it was from his own laid-back meandering. He only hoped Shaw wasn’t _too_ embarrassed when he realized his error and they had to double back.

It would be a shame to see the tips of his ears turn red, a real shame, Flynn thought with a grin. Hands still plunged into the empty pockets of his coat, he breathed in the cool morning air and tasted a hint of Drustvar dark roast in the smoke rising from the mug in the spymaster’s hands. 

“Nice morning, isn’t it?” He tried to make conversation. Shaw merely grunted, but the ex-pirate wasn’t put off. He was used to this kind of discussion, _especially_ when his companion’s mind was at work. “Can barely smell the fish market up here, and judging by the shipment of mackerel they brought in at dawn it’s a goddamn miracle. The Admiralty sure know how to design a Keep.”

“Mh-hm,” Shaw acknowledged him with a nod, then disappeared around another corner. Flynn quickened his pace to follow, realizing when he caught a glimpse of the branches of a tree hanging over the hedge just how far they had strayed from their goal.

No amount of teasing would be worth pacing the entire maze, he decided. Pausing a few feet behind the spymaster, he cleared his throat and spoke up, kicking the toe of his boot on the stone as he said:

“Hey, uh, mate, we’re getting a bit off-base here. I’m not doubting your skills with a maze, but if you listen, you’ll notice we can’t even hear the f—”

No sooner had Flynn flicked his teeth against his lower lip to finish the thought than Shaw cut him off by kicking open a wooden door on the ground to his right. It squealed on its hinges, then rustled the leaves around it as it slid down the length of the hedge. 

When it fell open, Flynn caught a whiff of something distinctly…beer-like, and then a voice from down below called up at them in a thick Stormsongian accent: “’Ey’ do yer mind? Whatcha playin’ at, burstin’ in like this. I’ll ‘ave ye’—”

“Woah, woah there, Shaw,” Flynn shot out his foot and scrambled to close the door. Seemingly undeterred by the yelling, Shaw, on the other hand, stared down into the shadows, his red mustache bristling over his frown. 

Giving the spymaster a slight nudge out of the way, Flynn finally succeeded in swinging back closed the door. The crack of wood against metal startled a pair of robins perched on a nearby branch, sending them flapping down onto the path. After giving the door a second nudge for good measure, he shot the spymaster a look, his palm lingering in a staying gesture against the lower half of his abdomen. 

“You can’t just bust up a party like that, mate. No sense getting on the guards’ bad side,” the ex-pirate all but hissed under his breath.

“I could hear them the moment we stepped into this maze. Do the Proudmoores know they aren’t doing their job?”

“The Proudmoores know not to piss off the help. Now, come on,” he gave the spymaster a pat, watching him tighten his grip on his coffee, “We aren’t here to check on the Lord Admiral’s workforce. Come along now.”

Shaw thankfully allowed himself to be turned and didn’t resist when Flynn slid an arm around his waist. His expression remained grim, but he abandoned the door to head back towards their last intersection. Giving Shaw's lower back a pat, Flynn finally—reluctantly—withdrew, and let the spymaster take the lead towards the center of the maze.

After a few decisive turns, Shaw finally spoke again, in a voice as cool as the morning air: “They were drinking on the job.”

“And you’re working on your day off. You’ve gotta give a little here, mate. Now come on, one more turn, and I’ll show you the fountain I told you about.”

Flynn watched the tips of Shaw’s ears turn red, nearly as red as his hair, and he nodded, rounding the bend, and taking another sip of his coffee. Flynn sidled up to stand beside him, and he straightened. Their fingers tangled together between them, and with that, Flynn gave him a squeeze.


	3. Drinks (T)

“Got a real treat for ya, boys,” the Tavernkeeper leaned over the bar with her arms folded and a broad smile across her face. She glanced first at Shaw, then to the ex-pirate seated next to him, before rising to pour them another shot of vodka.

“Oh yeah, Jaela? And what might that be?” Flynn, as always, was quick to rise to the bait. Without waiting for Shaw to join him, he tilted back his head and downed the shot. The glass clanked when he brought it back to the counter. His cheeks shone as he flashed the spymaster another sloppy grin.

Shaw, on the other hand, took his time. He pressed the rim of the glass to his lips, then took a measured gulp. The darkroot liquid burned on the way down, but he didn’t let it show. He just set it aside, watching as the two Kul Tirans exchanged a meaningful look.

“Fresh oysters, right out of the reef this evening,” Jaela turned to the waiter beside the counter. With a flick of her wrist, he was off, only to return moments later with a silver tray held aloft. On it, the spymaster could make out at least ten grey shells, clicking against one another as the plate was jostled from one hand to another, and then brought to rest on the counter between them.

Flynn paid the shellfish an inscrutable look, then leaned forward on his stool to pour himself another shot. “Sorry to disappoint you, Jaela,” Flynn paused to take his drink, then replied with a fervent shake of his auburn ponytail, “I haven’t got paid this week, and between the bottle of vodka here, and well—”

Shaw opened his mouth. Maybe it was the vodka loosening his tongue, but he didn’t want his companion to feel like he had to pay. He cleared his throat to get the Tavernkeeper’s attention, but she ignored him, laughing loudly and once again waving her hand:

“Nonsense, Flynn, it’s on the house today. We see you’ve got a real special guest with you from the Mainland. We just want to make sure your evening's special.”

“Oh, well, that’s—” Maybe it was just the alcohol flushing his skin, but Shaw could have sworn the ex-pirate’s cheeks were glowing.

“Kul Tiran hospitality,” Jaela supplied. She tilted her head and gave Shaw a wink: the first real acknowledgement of his presence since she’d put forth the offer. “Gotta show this Mainlander how we do things out in Boralus. A little taste of our customs, and such.”

Shaw kept his expression neutral. He offered a single polite nod, allowing her to continue.

“Besides,” she looked between them once more, then down at the plate of oysters, “You know what the sailors say about eating raw oysters. Thought it might spice up your night a bit to have—”

“Ah, that’s!” Flynn jumped in. His barstool squeaked as he swung his boots back against it. He must have heard how loudly he exclaimed it, because he coughed, eyed the bottle of vodka, then settled on studying Shaw’s empty glass. Finally, he rapped his knuckles gently against the counter’s edge, “All right, then. Say no more. The spymaster and I accept. Come on, Shaw. Let’s see how you handle a real Kul Tiran delicacy.”

“Hope you both _rise_ to the occasion,” Jaela barely stifled her laugh.

“We most certainly will,” Flynn caught a shell between his thumb and index finger, lifting it like he had lifted his shot glass many times that evening. “Pour this man another drink, Jaela. Let’s see how they handle the pearl of the sea down in Elwynn, all right?”

In all the drunken banter and poorly concealed innuendos, Shaw hadn’t really paid the food in front of him much thought. He was aware of oysters as a concept and knew very well what the Tavernkeeper had been trying to get at. What he wasn’t sure was how much of this was meant to be a genuine offer, and where teasing about his love life ended and shots at his outsider status began.

Regardless of the motivation for the gift, he didn’t intend to make a scene. He reached for his shot glass, downed his shot, and felt the heat of the burn spread from his chest to his tingling lips. He then focused his swiftly-wavering attention on the platter in front of him.

In each half-shell was a kind of brine, and floating within it, a ball of muscle and organs that, Shaw was certain, would taste as slimy as it looked. There was neither garnish nor sauce to temper the blow. For that, he supposed, he would have to rely on the vodka.

Mathias Shaw knew how to bite a bullet when needed, however. He had been trained to swallow any food or drink forced upon him, up to and including poison if it meant saving the life of the king that he served.

With no further hesitation, he lifted the shell to his bottom lip, then threw back his head. The cold, slimy ball slid down his tongue. His throat spasmed and threatened to force it back out, but he willed the muscles in his face and neck to relax. He squared his shoulders and watched as Flynn struggled to mimic the gesture. While the ex-pirate coughed, Shaw downed another, and while he sputtered and reached for the bottle of vodka, Shaw managed to keep his cool.

He plowed forward: taking in one oyster after another and punctuating each with a swig from the bottle the ex-pirate extended into the space between them. Caught up in the task at hand, Shaw managed to finish more than his half of the portion, and didn’t realize just how drunk he’d become until he was shoving Flynn Fairwind into the alley outside and desperately kissing away the brine that lingered on the tip of his tongue.

🦪 🦪 🦪

“Ah, here we go. Here’s the one, right here.”

Flynn paused at the end of the flower-lined lane, gesturing up at a wooden sign that read “The Cupola Café.” Shaw lingered a few feet behind him, feeling a bit under-dressed next to a cluster of ladies in fine silk gowns. Flynn, moreover, looked totally out of his element. His stained coat swung behind him as he hustled to speak to the maître d.

Bowing slightly to the women, Shaw shuffled passed them, then went to make sure the captain wasn’t causing any trouble. From the way he was gesturing, it seemed Flaw was trying to get them a table, to which the host, much to the spymaster’s shock, nodded complacently. Just as Shaw moved into earshot, he caught Flynn saying something about sauce but paid it little heed.

“A table?” He asked instead, to which the ex-pirate nodded.

“That’s right, mate. Just you and me. I told you I’d take you someplace nice.”

“Using what money, I wonder,” Shaw mused, unable to stop himself.

Flynn didn’t seem put off by the remark. Instead he laughed and gestured a bit too broadly as he stepped into the enclosure, “Oh, you know, a bit of this, a bit of that. Nothing illegal, mind you. I’ve just been saving. I heard it’s the best place in town, you know.”

“Is that so?” Shaw replied, pointedly quieter than his companion. He murmured his thanks to the host, then followed Flynn to the booth he had pointed out moments before.

A waiter already stood beside it, smoothing out the pillows strewn about the seats, then stepping aside to make room for the two men to enter. Shaw thanked him, as well, then slipped into the seat opposite of Flynn.

Their table, it turned out, overlooked the canal, and in the waning light of day the water glimmered and danced. Shaw followed its shine with his gaze, watching it spill out into the bay behind them, framed by snow-tipped mountains and trees in hues of yellow and green.

He breathed in. The air smelled of fine wine and perfume. This place must have cost Captain Fairwind a fortune. It would have even if he had only paid for the opportunity to sit in one of its alcoves. The realization made Shaw feel a certain way, but he couldn’t pin down if it was guilt, embarrassment, or…something more, that made his chest give a sudden lurch.

He didn’t speak again until the waiter poured them each a glass of white wine and lit the candle on the table between them. In the wick’s golden glow, Flynn’s proud smile was all the more pronounced. Shaw studied it for a pause, then continued the conversation they had been having before.

“The best place in town, you say,” Shaw mused, “I don’t doubt it.”

“That’s right. That’s what the fancy lads out at Norwington told me,” Flynn nodded, then reached for the stem of his glass. “They swore up and down about it. The very best place for them, in all of Kul Tiras. The best place to get fresh oysters.”

Shaw nearly choked. He scrambled to swallow the sound. “For oysters?” He finally managed, hoping he didn’t look too incredulous. What was Flynn trying to play at?

Much to Shaw’s surprise, however, there was no sign of jest in the ex-pirate’s eyes. He looked almost earnest, in fact. His lips curled into an honest smile, and he crossed his arms as he relaxed back in his seat.

“That’s right. The very best, served with hot sauce and the works. You seemed to like the others at the Curious Octopus so well. I didn’t want you thinking sub-par oysters were the best we have. Ah—here they come! Look at 'em!”

Shaw turned his head and watched as the waiter returned with a platter at least twice the size of the serving they had shared at the bar. It glimmered as it was slid onto the table in front of them, the shells neither quivering nor slipping with it perched on the waiter’s steady fingers.

Looking first at Flynn, then down at the oysters, Shaw noticed a couple of things: first, these oysters were almost too large to swallow in a single gulp, and second, there was no offer of vodka or rum with which to wash them down.

There was naught but a single dab of hot sauce and a sprig of herb dressing each mollusk. Shaw knew it wouldn’t be near enough to counter the salt and the slime. He looked across the table at Flynn, who seemed to be pursing his lips and bracing himself for the challenge in front of them. He thought to jump in and say something, but when his thoughts turned again to the cost of the evening and the man’s earnest preparations, he knew there was no way in hell that he could.

He waited for Flynn to take the first shell, then followed suit. Raising it to his lips, he stared into Flynn's grey eyes and forced a smile. The look seemed to brighten the Kul Tiran’s mood, because he flashed a grin of his own—the kind of toothy look with the power to warm the whole room.

Shaw nodded. Flynn steadied his hand, and then exclaimed through what might have been gritted teeth: “Bottom’s up!”

_Illustration by Flarenwrath_ ♥

🦪 🦪 🦪

Shaw was already dressed and at work reading his letters when Flynn finally rose from the bed they had shared at the Snug Harbor inn. The spymaster glanced up to see him wrap a towel around his bare ass and slip out the door that led to the bath they shared with the inn’s other guests.

Thinking nothing of it, he returned his focus to the parchment in front of him. Someone in Westfall was causing trouble over a land dispute that was supposed to have been settled last year. He’d have to send one of his agents out to inquire, posing as a lawyer, perhaps. He couldn’t have the matter being turned over to the…local authorities, as it were.

Satisfied, he penned a curt response to the informant, then slid the letter into an unmarked envelope. He picked up the second message—a missive from Kelsey, about some kind of _suspicious activity_ out near Arom’s Stand. He mulled over it, then readied a reply, but just then the door swung open.

“‘ey, mate,” Flynn quipped, striding in with something clutched in his hands. Shaw looked up—his gaze moving from the top of his towel to the still-wet hair on the ex-pirate's chest, then to the small of his back as he turned and nudged closed the door.

When he flipped back around, Shaw realized that he was holding two shot glasses—one in each hand—each filled with a kind of red liquid. He arched his brow. ‘Isn’t it a bit early to be drinking?’ he started to ask, but then he realized that something—a twisted, muscle-y, ball-like something—had sank to the bottom of each one.

A distinctly oyster-like something, swishing, and taunting Shaw like an all-seeing eye.

His stomach sank. He looked up at Flynn, and his mouth went slack. He couldn’t honestly expect him…for breakfast, of all things? No.

If Flynn noticed his horror, he didn’t acknowledge it. He just set down one glass in front of Shaw and used his now-free hand to push back his wet bangs. He dripped a bit onto the table, but that was the least of the spymaster’s concerns at this point.

Shaw didn’t want to believe he was serious, but he knew that he was: he knew it in his bright grin, and the way he swished the liquid around in his shot in some kind of proud display. This whole thing was testing Shaw in so many ways, but drinking was easier than exposing the lie he had previously furthered.

Swallowing down his disgust, and then, after that, the source of the bile rising into his throat, Shaw threw back his head, forbidding the slimy creature from finding its way back out. He nearly smashed his glass on the table, let out a grunt, and then forced himself to return to his work.

The taste of the thing haunted him all the way into nightfall.

🦪 🦪 🦪

Three days later, there was a gentle knock on the spymaster’s door. He rose to unlatch the chain, then cracked it open to discover a certain young cadet shifting from foot to foot at the threshold. He swung the door open and greeted her, and she hurried inside.

From the serious look on her usually-cheerful visage, Shaw couldn’t help but feel that he was about to have some kind of unwanted inquiry thrust upon him.

Something about her father, perhaps. He couldn’t bear the thought. He cleared his throat, then, trying to look as casual as he could manage, circled around his desk and took the seat across from her.

“Taelia, what brings you here?” He tried. He had never been great at cheerfulness, but he hoped this time he had managed.

Lifting her head, the young girl stared into his eyes and inquired in a hushed tone, “May I ask you a question?”

Shaw’s heart sank, but he didn’t let the pain reach his face, “About what, may I ask?”

“About Flynn.”

It wasn’t the kind of uncomfortable conversation he had been expecting, but it also wasn’t especially inviting. Pursing his lips beneath his mustache and squaring his shoulders, he folded his hands together on the table between them. “What about Flynn Fairwind?” He asked with a keen eye turned towards any change in her expression.

Whatever she had been holding in, she huffed out, and her shoulders slumped slightly forward. Curious, Shaw waited, letting her gather her thoughts, before she finally exclaimed: “It’s about this blasted oyster business. You don’t really enjoy them, do you? I keep telling him you're probably trying to be nice, but he insists you were smiling, and he never has seen you smile like that before. But it all seems so suspicious. Tell me I’m not wrong about this, Spymaster Shaw. We've been going out of our minds about it.”

Shaw was so started by this sudden turn in the conversation he almost snorted. The oysters, the Light-forsaken oysters. Taelia Fordragon had almost sent him to an early grave over oysters. With a slight shake of his head, he admitted:

“I can’t stand them, no. I couldn’t stand them the first time, nor the times after that.” ‘I just didn’t want to let him down,’ Shaw almost added, but then thought better of it. Luckily, what he had said seemed to be more than enough for Taelia to put the pieces together.

“All right,” she smiled, “Thank you. That’s what I've been trying to tell him.”

“Is he upset?” Shaw couldn’t stop himself from frowning this time.

Taelia watched him, then offered a gentle laugh, “Not in the slightest. He’s been practicing so he can get them down, you know. He thought he was doing you some kind of favor.”

“Let him down gently, at least.”

“Of course,” she nodded, then scooted back her chair to depart. “Thank you, spymaster, and thank you for being so kind to my friend.”

 _Kind_ wasn’t how Shaw chose to see it, but he didn’t argue with the girl. He just watched her exit, then settled back into his chair. A wave of relief washed over him.

Next time he would take Flynn back to the Cupola Café and order something nice: another bottle of wine, and some crackers and cheese, perhaps. On second thought, maybe he’d make it two bottles of wine, and some eggs and toast prepared Stormwind-style in the morning.

The thought brought a smile to the spymaster’s lips. He shook his head, then returned to his work.


	4. Superstition (G)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little bit of (past) Flynn/Taelia discussion in this one, as well. Just a heads up!

“‘ey, Flynn, come up ‘ere a second and give this a look for me!” A voice called from the ledge above him. A few moments later, a familiar face emerged: Koby, one of the younger deckhands who served on Flynn's ship. His cheeks were rosy with the bite of the early spring wind, and the tip of his nose even redder. 

None of that seemed to have deterred him. There was a jolly grin spread across his face, and a certain bounce in his step. Whether the latter stemmed from excitement or a need to stay warm, though, Flynn couldn’t be sure. 

The captain waved a bit and lifted his voice, making sure it would be heard over the howl of the wind, “’ey, quit your messing around, mate,” he matched the sailor’s tone, offering a friendly smile of his own, “You know we’re meant to be setting up camp on the hill ahead. We can’t be scaling the rocks like children.”

Shooting a quick glance at Taelia, hoping to find approval in her eyes, he was surprised to find her more interested in Koby and his ledge than the goal at the end of their path. Her smile, too, was wide, and she all but cut the ex-pirate off as she whipped around, passed in front of him, and dug her fingers into a small crack in the stone.

“Oh, Flynn, come on. It will just take a minute,” she easily hoisted herself up and over the outcropping, her plate boot leaving a small scratch in the rock face as she did so. Flynn could hardly believe what he was witnessing. The one day Taelia was fine with messing around was the day he wanted to make a good impression on their Alliance workmates. 

He thought for a moment about telling them he’d have to stay down, but his curiosity won out. He turned and pulled himself up onto the ledge, mumbling something about ‘hurrying it up’ before dusting off his hands on the front of his coat.

He soon discovered they were on a precipice overlooking Mariner Strand. It was barren except for a few smatterings of grass and a circle of moss-covered stones, about waist height on Taelia, and a bit lower on Flynn. There were four standing in each of the cardinal directions, and one—a particularly sharp and battered one—in the center. 

Flynn kicked the dirt with the toe of his boot, then leaned casually against the nearest stone, glancing from Koby to Taelia, and then back at Koby, “Well, you got me. Is it some kind of altar, or what?”

“They’re love stones,” a high voice quipped from the ledge. It turned out to belong to Ines the Boatswain: a Stormsong local, and a damn knowledgeable one at that. Flynn leaned over and offered her his hand, helping her the rest of the way up the rocks. 

“You don’t say,” he mused, before returning to stand beside the stone pointing north, “So...what? Do the locals come up here to snog? Should I be careful where I put my hands?”

She chuckled, and Koby with her. Taelia turned a bit pink in the cheeks. A few months ago, he might have tossed a flirt in her direction to see how bright he could get her to glow, but, well...circumstances had changed. He settled for offering her a small smile, which she returned, tucking back the black strands of her bob behind her ear. 

Ines finished her laughing and went on to shake her head. Stepping into the center of the circle, she placed her hand on the tip of the rock and waited until a few other crew members arrived and she had the group’s full attention. 

“Nothing of the sort, captain. Love stones are very serious business. It’s said if you put your hand like so—” she lifted her palm, and then placed it back where it had been moments before, taking her time, this time, as if to make a point— “Close your eyes, and walk widdershins until you can barely stand, you’ll find who you most desire. Your soulmate, or whatever you lot down in Tiragarde like to call it.”

“Just…standing there?” Flynn ventured, genuinely trying to understand. “It seems like your choices might be, ah,” he glanced around, “Kind of limited, if they have to be standing up here.”

“No, not up here,” she corrected, abandoning the center stone to take a few steps in his direction. She closed her eyes, then stumbled a few times, before slapping a hand against the cuff of his coat. Her demonstration was met by a whoop or two from his crew, and she flashed him a toothy grin. 

“You’re meant to travel in the direction you face, until you find the one you truly love.”

“What’s the point of the stones, then?” The ex-pirate questioned. 

To that, she gave his arm a shake. “Ah, come on, captain. What’s gotten into you lately? I’m starting to think you’ve forgotten how to have a good time with all this talk of reason and duty. Tell me the Alliance hasn’t sucked the soul out of you yet.”

The jab hit Flynn harder than he expected. He bristled, straightening his stance, and shaking the woman from his arm. After another quick glance in Taelia’s direction and a shrug to accompany the look, he made a show up stepping into the ring, not stopping until he had his hand splayed atop the tip of the jutting rock. He looked around, then raised his voice to cut through the wind. 

“All right, then! Soulmate, if you can hear me, I’m ready to find you! Ready or not!”

This earned a chuckle from the group. Flynn was satisfied. Closing his eyes, he started to circle east. His strides were purposeful at first, but after a few rounds, he found his boots starting to catch on the odd clump of grass and his posture starting to waver slightly. He, however, persisted, spinning and spinning and spinning far past the point he likely should have spun.

Staggering as if he were drunk, he removed his hand from the stone and stumbled off in a randomly-chosen direction. He could hear his small audience murmur and snort the first time he tripped over himself. A distinctly feminine voice to his right let out a gasp. On his left, somebody took a few steps, their coat rustling about them and their breath quickening. 

He dimly hoped whoever it was was preparing to catch him should he wander too far. His heart quickened a bit at the thought of tripping over the edge, but he persisted, foolhardy, and entirely set on seeing this game to its end. 

He felt one of the stones scrape the side of his left pant leg, but he kept going. The toe of his boot then caught on a clump of grass, and he faltered, then stumbled a few paces forward, only to be met by two hands grasping him firmly around his calves.

His eyes flew open at the contact. He looked down and found a familiar face staring at him from halfway down the ledge: an older man with red hair and a joyless look about him. His lips were set in a frown, and his brows furrowed. The fingers around Flynn’s legs dug into his skin through his pants. 

The contact made the tips of the ex-pirate’s ears grow hot. It was only then that he realized, fully, what had occurred, and why the rest of his crew suddenly grown so hushed.

“Ah—hello there, Shaw!” Flynn attempted to sound casual.

But Shaw, it seemed, was having absolutely none of it. 

“Captain,” the spymaster scolded. He must have strained up onto his toes when he said it, for he grew a few inches, glancing around Flynn’s legs towards the onlookers clustered around him. “If you are done playing with death, feel free to join us over at the campsite.”

Even if Shaw hadn’t had his hands on him, and Flynn hadn’t spent the last five minutes spinning around in a circle, he likely would have been shaking slightly at the spymaster’s sudden—and timely—appearance. In light of all of that and given the implications of their meeting, he was finding it increasingly difficult to keep on his feet at all. 

And so, with his back turned to his smirking crew, he decided to kneel instead. He swung his legs over the side of the outcropping and slid down beside the other man, making a mess of the back of his coat that he didn’t bother to brush off. 

Now out of view from the others, he stood at attention and offered Shaw a dramatic bow meant only for him. “Lead the way, spymaster,” he gestured back towards the path. 

With a grunt, Shaw eased himself the rest of the way down and waited until Flynn joined him. He grasped his shoulder, then, with a pat, set Flynn walking just in front of him down the path. The captain couldn’t help but wonder how many details about the game Shaw had overheard, but he said nothing of it. The two walked in silence, Shaw with his usual grimace, and Flynn— with his face just out of sight— beaming from ear to ear.


	5. Stealth (E)

Shaw froze with his hand pressed firm between Flynn’s shoulder blades and his cock buried in him up to the hilt. Above them, a floorboard creaked, and another groaned slightly under what seemed to be the weight of a shoe. The spymaster grunted and dug his nails into Flynn’s back, but the ex-pirate didn’t take the hint. He instead moaned, unabashed, and squirmed back against Shaw’s hips as if trying to get some leverage. 

“‘ey?” Flynn quipped, though there was a distinct hitch in his breath when he said it, “Hey mate, you alive back there?”

The steps overhead paused; Shaw could almost feel their owner hesitating, deliberating, and maybe even shooting a glance down at the floor. Not knowing what else to do, he leaned forward, clamping a hand over Flynn’s mouth and laying into him until his chest pressed against his back.

“Quiet,” he warned as he gave the captain’s ear a nip. 

Flynn finally seemed to catch his meaning, for he lifted his gaze and replied through the spymaster’s calloused fingers, “Oh! I see.”

Muffled though his voice was, the person overhead paused again. Shaw pressed his nose against the nape of Flynn’s neck and let out a frustrated growl that he, at least, knew wouldn't be overhead. With his face lost in Flynn’s loose auburn locks, he drew in a breath, rolled back his hips with every measure of patience inside him, then sank in until he felt the hair on Flynn’s cheeks rubbing against the top of his thighs.

Flynn tightened around him, and he wanted to gasp. Instead, he squeezed closed his eyes and relished the heat that surrounded him. The fingers of his free hand dug into the edge of the table, and his palm clamping over Flynn’s mouth tightened its hold.

Whoever was walking above them in Commander Wyrmbane’s chamber seemed satisfied—at least for now. The heavy steps quickened, crossing the room to pause at something in the far corner. Taking his chances, Shaw thrust a bit harder and turned to press his lips against the curve of Flynn’s neck. 

The ex-pirate nodded and grunted in approval. Shaw exhaled, then grazed his teeth against his skin. After a few more shallow thrusts and a moan he managed to mostly suppress, Shaw readjusted and found his footing. He tentatively removed his hand from Flynn’s lips and slid it down to grasp at his hips instead.

“Not. A. Sound,” the spymaster stressed, drawing out the weight of every syllable even through his whisper. Once he saw Flynn nodding against the desk, he took a chance and rocked back to fill him once more. This time his thrust was complete, and almost at the pace he desired. 

Shaw closed his eyes and savored the way the ex-pirate drew him in. He rolled back, then rocked forward. His lips pursed, and he held his breath. Beneath his grip, he felt a shudder pass through the other man’s body. It culminated in a deep, desperate “Oh!”

The syllable echoed off every wall. Shaw’s gaze flew to the ceiling as he heard another sudden creak in the wood. 

He wanted to slap the other man’s ass, get after him in some way, but he knew that would only make it worse. He settled, instead, on gripping his hips to the point of pain and shoving him forward until his upper body was splayed out across the table. 

Shaw’s cock throbbed in Flynn’s heat, but his heart quickened and he felt as if the air had been ripped from his lungs. Staring upwards, he caught a shadow moving between the cracks in the ceiling. He heard another crack, and then felt the boots stop above their heads. 

Palms now clammy, the spymaster slid them up to Flynn’s waist. Flynn, it seemed, had caught on, because he had his own knuckles shoved up under his mustache and his eyes fixed on the planks above them. 

Shame at the thought of being caught balls deep when he was supposed to be on the job yielded to a rush of adrenaline, and with it came a tremble and an ache that threatened to consume Shaw’s body. He hated to admit it, but the danger had him on edge: nudging him to the precipice and threatening to shove him over.

And, Shaw suspected, he was not alone in that feeling. Flynn, too, seemed to be having a time of it. While quiet—at least by his standards—his movement was unrestrained. His heels knocked against Shaw’s boots as he readjusted his stance and his bare back arched upwards until he quivered and bit down on his finger.

Shaw realized, as he felt the change in his angle, that Flynn was trying to deepen the pressure against his inner wall. Overcome by the way he tightened, Shaw allowed him to take the lead. He let Flynn lean back, shift upwards, and roll his hips, all the while keeping his own lips drawn in an unyielding frown lest some kind of moan or murmured rise in the back of his throat. 

Flynn continued to work him like that, and Shaw bored holes in the ceiling with his eyes. The boots upstairs shifted, took a few paces to the left, then wandered over to stand at the threshold of the room. Shaw’s heart clenched as he heard the knob turn and the hinges squeak, but it wasn't enough to stop him. 

“Harder,” Shaw insisted through gritted teeth, and Flynn lifted his head to look back at him. A silent understanding passed between them, then Flynn was rocking, drawing his hips inward, then sinking back onto Shaw's cock. Shaw held him and reveled in his tightness, his heat, the way he whimpered under his breath. Once unbridled, he thrust with a force unmatched. He clenched Flynn’s hips in his hands and shoved down into him: into his heat and the quiver of his muscles wrapped around the girth of Shaw’s shaft.

Even as Shaw heard the stairs into the hull starting to groan, he was moaning, far less restrained than he wanted to be. Dropping one hand to wrap around Flynn’s cock, the other found his hair and used it to shove his face against the table. He slammed into him, with enough of a jerk to make the desk squeal a few inches forward. Shaw followed it, using the shift in the ex-pirate’s weight to yank him back onto his shaft.

The tension building at the base of Shaw’s cock unfurled, and he came hard into the other man’s heat. He bit down on Flynn’s shoulder and cried out against his skin.

For a moment, there was only the feeling of his release, but then a gentle rap at the door ripped Shaw from his ecstasy. 

Lifting his mouth from Flynn Fairwind’s skin and squeezing pointedly at his cock, he cleared his throat and replied, “Yes?” His voice _almost_ sounded as clear as it should have. 

“Spymaster?” A human voice called back to him. Shaw recognized it as belonging to one of his agents: a Gilnean by the name of Averlane. He could almost feel the man sniffing from the other end of the door, even over the grunt of displeasure Flynn let out against the table.

“Yes?” Shaw managed and felt damn proud of himself for how even it sounded. Unfortunately, it proved not to be enough. 

It seemed the worgen had given up sniffing. When he replied, Shaw could almost feel the laughter in his voice, “Oh, never mind. I thought I heard— well, in any case, I’ll leave you to it.”

A blush rose up the back of Shaw’s neck. If he didn’t have his slackening cock still shoved in Flynn's ass and the ex-pirate’s very-much-still-hard length pressed into his palm, he would have hurried to compose himself and slip out the door. Even as they stood, he was tempted to attempt it. But when he stepped back even an inch, Flynn let out a whine: high, and unrestrained. 

Shaw huffed, shooting Flynn’s back a glare, but stroking his cock from base to head. One problem at a time, he decided. The worgen would catch the scent of sex on him whether he let the ex-pirate finish or not.

If there was no getting out of the truth, the spymaster thought, he might as well play fair.


	6. Scars (T)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some vague VanShaw content here, as well.

_**Soulmate Mark: Scar** _

__  


  
_Soulmates receive each other's scars—particularly scars received at formative moments—on their skin_

____________

There was a certain raised patch of skin on Mathias Shaw’s left shoulder that Flynn often found himself worrying over. Much of the spymaster’s body was striped with scars, gashes, and even the occasional birthmark, but this one…this one was different.

It was bumpy and incredibly large, but that wasn’t the thing that drew the captain’s eye. Its coloration, rather, seemed off—its pinks and browns slightly too dark for the spymaster’s skin, and its pattern eerily familiar. One night as they lay in the spymaster’s quarters, undressed and reclining with Shaw’s back pressed firm to Flynn’s chest, the ex-pirate finally plucked up the courage to ask. 

“This scar,” he traced the pad of his finger along it, following a spindly arm of it down to almost Shaw's shoulder blade, “How did you say you got it?”

Shaw had never said anything about it, of course, but that question seemed less awkward than admitting how many times Flynn had wondered about it unprompted. Beneath his touch, the spymaster tensed a bit. He fell silent, then, after a pause, quietly replied, “I have no idea. It showed up one day when I was twenty-four. I’ve often wondered why.”

It didn’t take long for Flynn to put the pieces together, but it took some time to decide whether it was worth revealing the truth. His mind drifted back to a certain day when he was twelve years old, standing outside his home with a rucksack clutched to his chest. He had screamed until his voice was raw. Tears had flooded his eyes, and he had wiped them frantically against the back of his hand.

He had screamed and screamed but neither his brother nor mother had emerged over the threshold of their small wooden home. Giving up yelling, he had tossed his bag to the side and had run up onto the porch and through the door. A beam had collapsed. Smoke had flooded his lungs, and then sparks—cruel in how beautifully they glowed—had flown into the air around him.

When he had come to, he was lying on a mat on the grass with his uncle Klause seated beside him. His arm had screamed in pain as the singed flesh peeled away, but the skin underneath had been unmarred. He had always chalked it up to some kind of small mercy, some tiny inkling of grace to make up for the unfairness of the rest of it. 

At least he didn’t have to see the echo of what had happened every time he looked in the mirror. Instead of their ghosts, he saw the tattoos with which he had chosen to decorate himself. But now he was here with his finger tracing out the injury on somebody else’s skin. On Mathias Shaw, the spymaster of Stormwind, of all people. 

Not sure what to say, he buried his nose against the nape of Shaw’s neck and abandoned the scar to wrap his arm, instead, around the older man’s waist. He heaved a sigh. His hand splayed on Shaw’s abdomen. Finally, with remarkable cheerfulness given the circumstances, he manage to reply, “Well, isn’t that funny? I hope it’s not some kind of curse. I’ve heard folks down in Drustvar talk about that kind of thing. Haven’t pissed off any of the witches down there, have you?”

Shaw snorted. His foot found Flynn’s down at the end of the bed and gave it a pointed nudge. “I hope you don’t actually believe those stories,” he scolded, then shifted to deepen the contact between them. 

After a long pause, and what seemed to be much thought paid to Flynn’s diversion, the spymaster added, in barely above a whisper: “I haven’t even been to Drustvar.”

____________

Shaw often found his hand wandering to a scar just above Flynn’s left pec. It wasn’t unusually shaped, nor did it stand out among the others, but for some reason it never failed to draw the spymaster’s gaze.

He always noticed it when Flynn removed his shirt, and sometimes, when he found himself seated atop him, he would let his fingers wander just so he could touch it without his behavior being too closely considered. 

It was a puzzling thing, that little scar.

One night as they rested together in Flynn’s room at the Snug Harbor Inn, Shaw took a chance and leaned in to study it. The drunk ex-pirate barely lifted his head in acknowledgment when Shaw settled his cheek against his pec. Instead, he dozed off. Shaw listened to his soft snores and stared, wondering not only how the man had acquired the mark but also why he was so taken by it. 

He touched it. Flynn grunted softly in his sleep, and then Shaw’s mind started to conjure an image. 

He had been pursuing the Defias that day, creeping around their encampment in Moonbrook and scarcely allowing himself to breathe. A familiar voice had murmured in his ear. He had whipped around, and a knife that was meant to be at his throat had slipped and grazed the skin just above his heart. 

Blood had blossomed like a purple rose on his blue-grey tunic, but the injury hadn’t left a scar. In fact, the skin where Edwin’s knife had landed had remained suspiciously clear, though the rest of his flesh was riddled with bumps and burn marks and bits of discoloration. 

He’d have to ask Flynn how he came to have such a scar…someday. For now, all he wanted to do was squeeze closed his eyes, lean his cheek against the sleeping ex-pirate’s chest, and listen to the gentle beating of his heart as he willed the tightness in his own chest to ease. 

It took a few deep breaths, but after a time, Shaw finally managed to settle and chase the memory of Edwin VanCleef and his blade from the front of his mind.


	7. Storm (T)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some jealousy discussion here, as well as some one-sided Flynn/Taelia.

Shaw watched a barrel skid across the wooden floor of the hull, half-expecting it to hit a bump, upend, and spill its store of Azerite at his feet. Instead it remained upright but knocked against his knees, drawing a low grunt from between his clenched teeth. 

With a shake of his head, he nudged the barrel to his left, stepping aside just enough to allow it to land beside him. Digging the heels of his boots into the space where wall met floor, the spymaster willed his body to stay upright. He drew in a breath. His shoulders dug into the wall as he clenched and unclenched his hands at his sides. 

After what seemed like hours, he finally heard the knock of boots on the stairs leading into the otherwise tightly sealed chamber. A certain captain appeared with a pile of journals and maps hugged close to his chest. Their eyes met, and Flynn brightened immediately, quickening his pace and closing the distance between them with what seemed like little difficulty. 

“Looking a little green there, Mattie,” the ex-pirate observed. He delivered the words like a joke, but they made Shaw bristle and straighten. He coughed, but Flynn continued with little thought paid to the sound:

“Look, mate, I’m sorry to do this to you, but water’s pouring in over deck and I—I mean all of us don’t want to see the royal spymaster dragged out to sea. You understand, yeah?”

“I could be helping,” Shaw offered, with very little conviction. 

Flynn chuckled and set down the pile of papers on the floor between them. “Yeah, yeah, well you can help by keeping watch over these. The Middenwake’s hull will hold, but my room is starting to look like the Salt and Shandy on a rainy day. Can’t have these maps getting ruined or we’ll waste another two expeditions trying to find bloody Havenswood again.”

Fair though that sounded, Shaw could easily read between the lines. He didn’t have his sea legs, Flynn had pointed out even before they had hit rough waters, and now it was taking everything left in him to keep his supper down and his feet on the floor. It wounded his pride, but he didn’t have enough drive left in him to keep protesting. 

With a sigh, he chanced a glance down at the books on the floor, which he immediately regretted. Blood drained from his cheeks, and he turned his head. He hurried to swallow down the bile that rose in the back of his throat. “All right,” he conceded, just as the boat jerked him backwards. 

Flynn tripped forward a pace or two, splaying his hands on either side of the wall above Shaw’s shoulders, but bouncing back quickly to straighten and head over to the stairs, “All right, then! Try to keep the books between your feet. I’ll be back with more in just a minute—”

The door to the stairwell must have swung open because Flynn’s voice disappeared under the deafening howl of the wind. Shaw caught a hint of moisture in the air, and his thoughts started to drift back to the fog that had surrounded them on the docks of Havenswood that morning. Eerie though the island had been, Shaw had felt safe. With his two feet on the ground and his mind at work piecing together the echoes of its residents’ demise, he had been thoroughly in his elements.

He missed it. Shaking his head and digging his nails into the wood behind him, he tried to brace himself for the next tossing wave. The boat swung violently back, then forward, sending him crashing with a thud to his knees. His hands smacked the pile of books in front of him. Cursing under his breath, he shoved the items off to the side, hoping to use the floor as leverage to get back onto his feet. 

Caught up in his efforts as he was, he didn’t notice Flynn’s return until the ex-pirate pressed his hand against his shoulder. “Woah there,” Flynn chuckled, but his voice lacked any hint of malice, “You know, maybe you should stay down. It will be hell on the nausea, but at least you won’t break your leg.”

Under different circumstances, Shaw might have had half a mind to shake the other man off his arm. As another wave hit and Flynn stumbled just enough to send the items he was carrying sliding in Shaw’s direction, however, the spymaster soon found something else to distract his mind.

He let out a grunt and stared down at the papers, a few of which Flynn was scrambling to scoop back into his arms. A couple of books, a letter, a photograph or two—from the pirate’s sheepish laugh he realized these must be his personal effects. Pursing his lips to hold back his nausea, Shaw leaned backwards until he was fully seated, then gave the captain a probing look. 

“Books?” He asked. He didn’t mean to sound so surprised, but he was. Flynn hardly seemed like a reading man. In an attempt at wry humor, Shaw pressed him on it, allowing himself the barest hint of a smile:

“Don’t tell me those are the _Steamy Romances_ I’ve confiscated from some of my agents. I thought more of you, Captain Fairwind.”

It was unclear from the strange look Flynn offered in return whether he was offended or not, but the tips of his ears grew red. “Oh, no,” he corrected, with uncharacteristic seriousness, “Just history books. A little of this and that. Helps to know something about the islands I visit, you see.”

Shaw quickly realized he shouldn’t have misjudged him. His brows rose, and he reached over to touch the cover of the nearest one. It was a thick red with gold embossment, and, trailing his hand along the spine, he soon found words he should have caught before. ‘The Rise of the Zandalari Empire,’ it read. 

Shaw opened his mouth to mutter a quick apology, but, as the hull lurched, he blurted out the next thing that came to mind: “May I see?”

“Yeah, sure, of course,” Flynn shoved it in his direction. “Just try not to look down too much or you’ll really lose it, yeah? Can’t have you barfing on my things.”

Shaw knew from his choice of words that any momentary discomfort at the misunderstanding had passed. He relaxed as much as he could, letting his shoulders slump and the weight of the book settle against his thighs. He opened the cover and chanced a glance down. There was an illustration of a now-familiar pyramid on the first page, and a few pages in he found a description of the jungle where the two of them had embarked on their first mission together.

It brought a real smile to Shaw’s lips. For a moment, he found himself wondering if Flynn had purchased the book before their treasure heist or after they’d come back to port. Imagining the captain happily cashing in his earnings at the bookstore and asking for a book on Dazar’alor made Shaw’s chest tighten a bit. He might have spent more time considering it, but then the boat rocked, and the Azerite in the barrel beside him clattered and shook.

Just as Flynn reached out to grab his haul, the book on Shaw’s lap fell open to a page about halfway in. Glancing down, the spymaster realized it had opened there because it was marked by a small photograph of Flynn and a girl with closely cropped black hair, with their arms draped over each other’s shoulders.

Shaw’s mouth suddenly went dry. The pleasant flutter in his chest turned to a clench, and another wave of nausea threatened to consume him. Flynn must have noticed a change in his expression—or, Shaw thought with a bit of chagrin, perhaps he just hadn't meant for him to see that—because he leaned over to shut the book and scoop it back into his arms. 

But Mathias Shaw, spymaster of Stormwind, was not so easily deterred when his mind was set upon something, especially something as deeply personal as this. In a voice he hoped came off as neutral, he observed under his breath: “Taelia Fordragon.”

“Yup, taken at the Midsummer festival, when was that? Two years ago, maybe?” If Flynn was feeling guilty, he wasn’t letting it show. His smile remained undaunted, and it set Shaw even more ill at ease. 

‘Doesn’t he even care?’ Shaw had to wonder, ‘Was this all just some game to him, or is it so normal for Kul Tirans to have a _girl in every port_ as they say, that he feels no qualms about playing me for a fool?’

If Shaw had been a younger and brasher man, he might have blurted out all that and more. Instead, he settled for something lower and cooler, though he wished his voice hadn’t cracked when he said it:

“You have feelings for her?”

“Did,” Flynn quickly replied. His smile waned now; it seemed he was finally starting to realize that Shaw was upset. Quickly shuffling his belongs off to the side, Flynn shifted forward to crouch between Shaw’s knees. Unlike the strain in the spymaster’s voice, the captain’s voice was warm and even, and his expression honest as his eyes sought out Shaw’s.

“Taelia’s my friend, and a damn good fighter. Yeah, I had a bit of a crush on her for a while, but she never saw me like that, and I sure as hell don’t have those feelings anymore.”

“And why is that?”

Shaw could almost feel Flynn’s body react to his words. Even as he snorted, his shoulders squared, and his eyes got impossibly wide. “Because I’m in love with you!” He blurted out—to Shaw’s surprise. To Flynn’s surprise, too, perhaps, because the next wave caught him off balance and he landed flat on his ass a few inches towards the center of the hull. 

At this distance, they could both take in the other in their entirety. Shaw studied Flynn’s movements, from the way he crossed his arms over his chest to the way his cheeks glowed in the dim light. Even as he did so, however, he likewise reminded himself to control his own stance. He dug his shoulder blades into the wall and clenched his hands in his lap.

When another wave came, Shaw swayed, but the adrenaline now pumping through his veins made his nausea feel like an afterthought. They sat in silence for a moment. Shaw could hear a wave crashing against the ship somewhere overhead. Finally, slowly and awkwardly, Flynn rose to his feet and made for the bottom of the stairs.

“Anyways,” he replied in his usually-chipper tone, “Try to keep hold of my stuff down here, Mattie. I’ll be back in a sec with the rest of my things!”

Shaw reached down and rested his hand against the cover of the book, feeling ashamed, confused, and most of all _stunned_ by his own foolish behavior and Flynn’s sudden dashing of his fears.

Clearing his throat, he replied, just before the ex-pirate was out of earshot, with every ounce of resolve and certainty and tenderness the older rogue could muster: 

“You too, Flynn. I mean, I love you, too.”

Shaw didn’t need to look to know that Flynn had peeked back into the room. He could hear his hands gripping the frame of the door; he could feel the radiance of his smile as he turned on his heels and took the steps in twos. 

The spymaster drew in a breath, squeezed closed his eyes, and let his mind return to that morning on the docks, where the two of them had stood side by side, barely touching, and gazing out into the mist.


End file.
